


Worthy Thy Benediction

by winter156



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, immortal au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 11:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12297927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter156/pseuds/winter156
Summary: Miranda is very old and very powerful and finds Andrea intriguing.





	Worthy Thy Benediction

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know where this came from. But it's the first thing I've written in ages, so I thought I'd put it up to see if more inspiration strikes.

Miranda looks around the small apartment, her gaze unhurried. There isn’t much to see, but she doesn’t want to miss anything.

Very human items litter the space. Most of which are some sort of demarcation of time. Little to do lists, and post-it reminders, and work set aside to do in the morning. All things that are necessary to human life. Time moves so much differently for them.

She walks slowly to the window overlooking the street, her fingers delicately tracing the things she passes. She’s feeling the space, trying to understand what everything means for the human that inhabits it.

Everything seems mostly utilitarian, as if nothing is too sentimentally connected to its occupant. It’s a transitory place, somewhere that someone is just passing through. Miranda tries to remember what simply passing through one stage of life to the next felt like. Time moves so very differently for her. At times, it seems it doesn’t move at all. But recently, the world doesn’t know when to stop moving, everything is full tilt in forward motion and it is thrilling and wonderful to feel change rush up to meet her. People, and their human nature, however, don’t change all that much. And that makes being what she is easier.

She looks over at the bed and the warm body splayed atop it. Her heart aches at the sight. And that is a strange sensation indeed. She hasn’t felt anything like that in…she can’t even remember the last time she _felt_ , and certainly not with this intensity. The girl doesn’t fear her, a novelty all its own. She thinks she knows what Miranda is and she chooses to challenge her instead of cower; she’s audacious enough to insist on being taught everything she doesn’t know. It borders on impudence and Miranda hasn’t been so fascinated by anyone in centuries. It would be easy to get caught up in the seventy or eighty years the young woman likely has left. She wants to, even though it’s unwise.

The ringing of church bells distracts Miranda from her exploration and thoughts. The tolling of the hour sounds inordinately loud echoing off the tall buildings and through the empty streets. The sound is beautiful in a way she’d forgotten. Her townhouse is far from any places of worship and she has little desire to venture near them. She hasn’t seen eye to eye with god in quite some time.

She looks out across the darkness and can make out the steeple of the old building; it’s impressive the lengths people go to try and put order onto a chaotic universe. Miranda looks back at the bed. She’d venture a guess that the young woman isn’t the religious type.

Her bright blue eyes, visible even in darkness, go back to the church steeple with it’s heavy cross piercing the night sky. She remembers the man that made that cross famous, not the fanciful myth and legend that’s been passed down through the centuries, but the man himself. He was a good man, possibly the best of humanity. A carpenter martyred for opposing the barbaric Roman government; a good man standing against the evil of his day. She wonders how much better the world would be if people adopted that principle to heart instead of selfishly seeking their own gains.

She looks at that cross now and thinks it odd how religion is an entirely human construct. How humanity has imbued that cross with spiritual meaning, with the intention of god sacrificing for the sins of the world, with the assumption that god is so good as to offer a sacrifice in the first place. She finds the endless human endeavor to search for a god that cares and can bring meaning to life almost pitiful.

Miranda knows better, she knows he cares nothing for the insignificant lives of humans, or hers even. The fact is proven every time some innocent is caught in the crossfire of something they could’ve never anticipated. There is no one watching over the child being abused, or the homeless starving and cold under a bridge, or the girl being devoured in a dark alley by a monster. The devil is alive and well and partying like the world is ending. But god…he doesn’t care…his absence is evident.

Regardless, every Sunday or Saturday or Friday churches fill with parishioners seeking the mercy, favor, grace of their chosen image of god. Miranda has seen the same pattern year upon year, decade upon decade, century upon century. Obeisance and loyalty given unconditionally to the idea of a benevolent and caring god.

She scoffs at the very idea of it.

She’s never understood it. And now, she can’t remember what she thought of the practice when she was mortal. Did it give her comfort to believe that a caring god housed in heaven would keep the monsters that prowled in the dark at bay?

If it did then, it certainly doesn’t now. She’s now one on the monsters that prowls in the darkness; and she knows there is no one, nothing, that stops her. The universe is empty of a god that hears.

A gentle snore interrupts Miranda’s musings. She looks back at the sleeping woman on the bed. She smiles.

There might be no god that cares. But, there is goodness and purity in the world. And Miranda will debase herself to worship at the altar of flesh and bone laid bare before her. This is her church: the curves of this woman.

Miranda is standing over the bed in an instant. She watches the gentle rise and fall of a chest. It’s mesmerizing. She opens her mouth to taste the scent in the air. Miranda can still smell them on the sheets and on her skin; it’s intoxicating. And she’s suddenly hungry.

She sits on the bed. Her hand traces from knee to hipbone, rubbing circles with her thumb where her hand comes to rest. “Andrea,” she calls softly, repeatedly until the warm body turns toward her. Open and vulnerable and inviting.

A smile forms on Andrea’s lips. “Insatiable,” she rasps, voice still half asleep.

Her legs open in invitation that Miranda readily and happily accepts. She moves onto the bed and slides up the open and willing body. Andrea trembles at the friction of skin moving over skin.

Miranda can smell Andrea’s excitement; it’s intoxicating, and sends a thrill through her. Her heartbeat thuds in her ears, and her blood rushes hotly through every inch of her. She’s firmly pressed against Andrea and the feel of wetness spreading against her abdomen makes her head spin.

A quick, unexpected change in their positions causes a laugh to bubble out of Miranda. It’s not easy to surprise her.

“Would you like to lead?” Laughter still tinges her voice. She’s intrigued and excited by the prospect.

Andrea’s smile is bright and happy. “Yes.” It’s simple but not a command.

Miranda acquiesces to this young woman the way she never has to any man. “Then by all means, please do.”

Her deference is rewarded with a hard kiss. Fire licks her veins and settles low in abdomen. Andrea is straddling her and she can still feel her wetness smeared on her stomach. She feels like her head is on fire. It might be; she focuses as much mental capacity as she can to make sure she isn’t losing control of herself.

Andrea pulls away from the kiss, breathing hard, eyes nearly black with the excitement Miranda can feel on her skin. “Everything alright?” Her smile is wicked. She knows exactly what she’s doing to her.

“If you don’t do something about this soon,” Miranda pushes her hips up trying to find any sort of friction, “I’m going to burst into flame.”

The low laugh that produces certainly does little to tamp down the heat. Miranda isn’t sure she’s completely joking about combusting.

“Can I taste you?” The laughter is gone, and Andrea sounds as hungry as Miranda feels.

The question sends a bolt of want straight between Miranda’s legs. She’s wet and burning and so, so ready. She nods, her mouth too dry to form words.

Andrea descends and lays prostrate between her open thighs. And then her mouth is on Miranda. Hot. Wet. Eating her like she’s sacrament. Holy. Godly.

Miranda shudders against an insistent mouth. But Andrea doesn’t stop, she slips fingers into her and sucks at her until Miranda is arching off the bed. She doesn’t stop until Miranda’s thighs tremble and fingers gently pull at her hair.

Andrea moves up to lay next to Miranda. She plops down on her side and watches as Miranda catches her breath.

Miranda has a forearm thrown over her eyes but she can practically feel the smile on Andrea’s face. She moves faster than the human eye can detect and she’s between slim thighs before Andrea’s mind can register the motion. Andrea doesn’t startle. But, Miranda goes no further before looking into brown eyes and getting permission. The brunette nods. A sharp sigh escapes her when Miranda slips two fingers inside her.

She moves slowly, her fingertips feeling every ridge of flesh. It’s all warm, wet heat and Miranda is humbled. She has always been humbled by this. God did do this right, and she’s grateful for that. This she can worship with hands and mouth and words and heart.

To hear the soft exclamations, sighs, sounds that simple motion can produce is heady and addicting. But, to hear them from this woman, that is sublime.

“Don’t tease,” Andrea says between short breaths, eyes closed and hands fisted in sheets. “I’m so close…please.”

Miranda is undone. She moves down and kneels between open thighs. And, she worships Andrea. With her lips and tongue and fingers.

When fingers fist in her hair and thighs clamp around her head and wet heat constricts against her fingers, Miranda feels venerated and blessed and powerful and humbled. It’s as close to a spiritual experience she has had since she left her first life behind.

 “What were you called before?” Andrea asks into the quiet stillness that follows as their breathing evens out.

Miranda turns so she’s on her side facing Andrea. She brings her fingers up to trace the young, beautiful face. She’s trying to learn and memorize her, to sear her into her consciousness so deeply as to never be forgotten. “I’ve had many names. Some of which you’d know.” Her fingers travel down to Andrea’s delicate collarbones. “Most of which you’ve probably never heard of.”

Brown eyes half closed, Andrea enjoys the gentle touches along her skin. “What were you called originally, then?”

Miranda doesn’t respond for a long time. Andrea has almost gone back to sleep. “There is some knowledge from which there is no turning back, Andrea.” The warning in her voice, her words, couldn’t be clearer.

Andrea kisses her shoulder, fully present with her. “I don’t want to turn back. I want to know as much as you want to share.”

Blue eyes regard and measure. Andrea doesn’t flinch.

“Lilith,” Miranda says after a moment’s hesitation.

Andrea’s eyes widen, her face set in shock. But, she hasn’t stiffened or moved away. “The first one? _That_ Lilith?”

Miranda nods in confirmation.

“I was right.” Andrea seems fascinated.

Miranda raises an eyebrow at that, her disbelief evident without words.

“Well,” Andrea explains, “I mean about knowing you were very old and very powerful.”

Now both of Miranda’s eyebrows move up and she tries to not let any of the amusement she feels pull her lips into a smile.

“No, that didn’t come out right,” Andrea is quick to backtrack. “I didn’t mean old. I meant undead…um immortal, maybe…undying.” A light blush sits high on her cheekbones.

Miranda finds the fumbling endearing. Her heart aches in her chest. She moves in and places a soft kiss on Andrea’s slightly open lips. She smiles at her, her eyes sparkle. She hasn’t felt so alive in years.

“I _am_ both _very_ old and _very_ powerful,” she teases gently. She presses another kiss to a forehead.

Andrea huffs a quiet laugh. She raises her hand to tuck errant strands of hair behind Miranda’s ear and leaves her hand pressed against a soft cheek. “Are the stories true?”

Miranda’s fingers trace patterns on the skin of Andrea’s back as she regards the brown eyes in front of her. “Some. Perhaps there is some truth in all of them.” Her eyes flit away for a moment. “Most stories about me aren’t very flattering.”

“That’s because they’re never told from your perspective,” Andrea is quick to defend.

Miranda smiles, slow and easy. She can’t remember the last time she smiled so much, her face almost doesn’t remember the sensation. She is most certainly happy here in this little transitory apartment with a vibrant human being that doesn’t fear or revile her. It surprises her, but she quickly decides that’s a good thing.

“Perhaps I’ll tell it to you someday,” Miranda whispers into the space between them. She is offering something Andrea may not realize is precious, but she wants to.

Andrea kisses her then, quick and fierce before pulling back, her eyes full of wonder. Perhaps she does know what Miranda is offering. “I’d love to hear it.”

Miranda will stay the duration of Andrea’s life. And maybe longer if Andrea wants to and allows her to make it so.

Because she’s almost certain the ache in her heart is love. And that’s too precious a thing to simply discard. And a kind of light spreads out from Andrea. It’s made everything change color. And it’s made the world open out. And it’s made the day be good to awaken to. And it’s made it so there are no limits to anything. And it’s made the people of the world seem good and handsome.

Mouth pressed against mouth, Miranda definitively decides that god doesn’t compare to Andrea Sachs.


End file.
